


think i'm ready to be here

by Horsantula



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Ascension, Dallas Steaks (Blaseball Team), F/F, Grand Siesta, Horseblindness, Incineration, Season 10 Day X, Season 9 Day X, Seasons 9-11, heads up seb telly gets incinerated again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula
Summary: Ripped from her home time and forced to play blaseball for the Steaks centuries later, Gallup Crueller’s not adjusting to the league so well. She doesn’t expect to cross paths with Silvaire Roadhouse, who understands her perhaps more than anyone. But will ascension cut their time together short?
Relationships: Gallup Crueller/Silvaire Roadhouse
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	think i'm ready to be here

“NOT LIKE THIS!” the Steaks stands erupt. “NOT! LIKE! THIS!”

From her position in the outfield, Gallup Crueller shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. She watches with dismay as the scoreboard flickers from 2-2 to 2-4. A triple and two subsequent scores from the Garages have just dashed the Steaks’ hopes of making the playoffs. 

Gallup’s gaze flickers over to Ronan Jaylee, who has just thrown the doomed pitch. She’s muttering something under her breath (curses probably, judging by her expression), and her face is ghastly pale. The bandage on her arm, plastered on hastily less than an inning ago, is already soaked through. She’s leaning on her glolf club for support - the recent siphoning looks to have taken its toll on her.

But Ronan eventually recovers, and smacks another ball with her club to the next player in the order. They hit it in Gallup’s direction, and Gallup sprints towards it, scoops it up, and chucks it to her teammate at first base to end the inning. 

Gallup runs to catch up to Ronan as she trudges towards the dugout. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Ronan says. “Please gods, just let the game end now.”

She gets her wish - though the Steaks score to bring the score up to 3-4, it’s not enough. The Garages fans scream as Dickerson Morse gets out and the Garages surround each other, jumping up and down and embracing. The Steaks watch silently as Dickerson trudges back to the dugout, shaking his head.

“It’s okay,” captain Conner Haley says in a low voice. “We tried our best, and that’s what matters.”

Gallup silently disagrees. She thinks of the four times she was at bat and didn’t even get on base once. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything and, as the rest of her teammates start to pack up their stuff, stays put on the bench, holding a paper cup of water in her hand but not drinking it. 

“Hey,” Ronan says, the last one to leave the dugout. “You coming?”

“You go ‘head, Ronan. I’ll be inside in a bit,” Gallup says. “Go take care of that siphoning wound.”

Ronan shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She saunters inside, glolf club slung over her shoulder. Alone at last, Gallup allows herself a breath. Most of the fans have left the stadium by now. Before the rest of her teammates can finish showering and come back outside to fire up the grill, she picks up a bat and swings it as hard as she can against the concrete wall of the dugout. 

_THUNK._

Not even a dent. Gallup grits her teeth and swings again, and again.

_THUNK. CRACK._

The bat breaks in half, explodes into flame, and disintegrates to ash in her hands. Gallup stumbles back, but the flame sputters out before it can catch on anything else. She lets out a growl, then steps closer and examines the wall. Maybe a little dent, now. But it’s nothing compared to before. Before the contract, before blaseball, one swing would’ve dashed the whole wall to pieces.

She storms out of the dugout as Conner Haley passes her, lugging a cooler full of meat and vegetables about to hit the grill.

“How’re you doin’?” Conner asks, but Gallup doesn’t answer. She’s in no mood for a cookout today.

After she showers and gets dressed in her usual getup - dark collared shirt, trousers, long duster, and cowboy hat with two holes cut to accommodate her horns - Gallup has to admit she feels marginally better. 

She expects to be the last one leaving the locker room, but as she’s retrieving another bat from the supply closet to replace the one she broke, Ronan comes back in from the trainer, a clean bandage on her arm. 

“All better,” she chirps, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She raises an eyebrow at Gallup. “You going down to the cookout? I’m _starving._ ” 

Gallup had been thinking about quietly slipping through a back entrance and taking off on her motorcycle, but she relents. 

“Sure. Let’s go,” she says, and follows Ronan down to the diamond, which is packed as usual and radiating enough welcoming dad vibes to be legitimately irritating. She grabs a beer from the cooler and, on second thought, a hotdog, which she douses in enough hot sauce to soak the whole bun. 

Finding a table as far away from the grill pit as possible, she sits down, takes a vicious bite of the hotdog, and washes it down with a swig of beer. _Something stronger would be nice_ , she thinks. To Gallup’s further annoyance, most of her teammates - Ronan and Conner among them - come to sit next to her. They’ve got plates piled high and appear to be in a much more festive mood.

“You hear about the Crabs vs. Jazz Hands game?” Conner is saying.

“Yeah, I saw the score,” Sam Scandal responds. “Unbelievable.”

There’s a TV mounted above the buffet, and everyone at the table turns towards it as the analysis of the Crabs’ last game flashes on it. Thirteen to one against the Jazz Hands. Gallup watches, despite herself, as clips of the most exciting moments play - the Crabs, in their red-and-white jerseys, hitting home runs, throwing strikeouts, and stealing bases. 

The camera zooms in on a player standing on first base, brow furrowed in concentration. As the pitcher lets loose the ball, she springs into action and sprints. The catcher grabs it out of the air and flings it towards second base, but she gets there before it does, making a frantic dive and skidding on her stomach. She comes to a stop in the dirt with her fingers resting on the base. The murmurs in the stands crescendo, and the player stands up, brushes herself off with a great beaming smile on her face, and pumps a fist in the air. 

That’s when Gallup’s heart skips a beat. The video stops on the player’s face and the sports analyst comes back on. 

“Silvaire Roadhouse,” they say. “Scored three times and stole two bases. Though Tillman Henderson never got the chance to pay us all back the $50 we’re due, Roadhouse is a worthy replacement.”

They keep talking but Gallup doesn’t hear them continue. Her eyes are fixed on the freeze frame of Silvaire Roadhouse, her dark eyes ablaze with determination and a wild grin spread across her face. And she reaches up near-unconsciously to adjust her cowboy hat as she sees that Silvaire’s blaseball cap, like hers, has holes cut in it for two curved horns to poke through. And she can’t help but wish for a second that the Steaks were part of the Wild League. 

* * *

Texas nights are hot, just as Gallup is used to. From her room in the Steaks clubhouse (a former office space that someone put an Iklea bed and dresser in for her), she can see the road glowing orange under the streetlights. The parking lot’s empty except for her motorcycle in the player area, moonlight glancing off the chrome. 

Now that the season’s over, there’s precious little to do. Gallup’s somehow glad there’s still practice, even though it’s four grueling hours a day. At least it’s something to do, even if the stupid ILB contract keeps her from improving. But when she’s not playing blaseball herself, she’s keeping an unusually close eye on the playoff games. Well, specifically, the Crabs games. For no particular reason, of course. That’s what she keeps telling herself.

Gallup’s having trouble sleeping tonight - no matter which way she tosses and turns, her horns press into the mattress uncomfortably and every time she closes her eyes they blink open again and she stares at the ceiling. Even though her arms and legs are sore from the past few days’ practice and she knows there’s another one coming tomorrow she swings herself out of bed and slips into street clothes. 

Five minutes later, the motorcycle roars to life and Gallup speeds down the empty street, the sound of the engine echoing into the distance and the breeze gently ruffling her hair. Downtown Dallas isn’t far, and soon enough she parks her motorcycle in the shadow of a secluded alley and slips into the only demon bar in all of Texas - the Laughing Goat. 

The instant Gallup smells the odor of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sulfur, she feels at home. It’s a rather quiet night and the low murmur of conversation and music doesn’t prevent her from hearing the bartender’s greeting. 

“Hey, Gallup, how’re you?”

“Doin’ swell, Maggie, thanks for askin’.” Gallup plunks herself down at her usual bar stool. 

“The usual?”

Gallup nods. Maggie pours two ounces of corn whisky into a glass, followed by a spoonful of fine yellow powder and a dash of something thick and red from an unlabeled bottle underneath the bar. She mixes it well and hands it to Gallup, who takes it gratefully. 

“Thanks, Maggie.”

“Anytime, hon. Been up to anythin’ interestin’ lately? I see your team didn’t make it to the playoffs.”

Gallup shakes her head. “Just practicin’. Watchin’ the postseason.”

Maggie tilts her head. “Thought you didn’t like watchin’ blaseball.”

Gallup flushes, opens her mouth to defend herself, but at that moment the door to the bar opens, and she turns around to see Silvaire Roadhouse walk in. 

Though it’s almost certainly her first time in the Laughing Goat, Silvaire approaches the bar without any trace of trepidation and slides into a bar seat five down from Gallup’s. Though the conversation stops and restarts momentarily at her entrance, she doesn’t appear fazed.

“Evenin’,” Silvaire says to Maggie. 

“Welcome,” Maggie says cautiously. “What brings you here?”

Silvaire shrugs, a motion that shakes the fringe lining the back of her brown leather jacket. “I happened to be in town, and this place seemed like the best one to get a drink.”

Maggie appears unmoved by the flattery. “What can I get for ya?”

Silvaire idly drums her fingers on the bartop. “Whisky, on the rocks, please.”

Gallup, for a split second, has a horrible impulse to buy Silvaire’s drink for her, but wrestles the thought away. As a first impression, it would definitely creep her out. So she just sips her own drink and stares straight ahead in an effort to stop sneaking glances. But she’s conscious of Silvaire there besides her, thanking Maggie for the drink, and also that the Crabs won today against the Houston Spies, 3-2, and Silvaire didn’t score today but she did get on base once, and yesterday they lost their home game against the Spies 4-6, and she didn’t get on base at all. Gallup clenches her lips even tighter so not one treacherous word can pass through them, and then…

“‘Scuse me. I’m sorry if I’ve got the wrong person, but you look familiar. You’re a blaseball player, right?” Gallup whips her head around and sees Silvaire leaning towards her with a friendly expression on her face. It takes Gallup a moment to realize that she’s being addressed.

She nods. “Yeah. I am. For the Steaks.”

Silvaire smiles, and Gallup can see in it the ghost of the exultant one she’d seen on television. She holds out her hand. “I’m Silvaire Roadhouse. I’m on the Crabs.”

Her hand is warm and all Gallup can think is that she hopes her own hand isn’t sweaty. She says, “I’m Gallup Crueller. Pleased to meet ya. How’d you find this place?”

“I wanted a drink ‘fore going to Baltimore,” Silvaire says. “Not really many places that cater to, well…” Her eyes flicker up to Gallup’s horns. Gallup nods. She remembers that Silvaire hasn’t been in the league for a whole season yet. Finding a place like this probably means as much to her as it did to Gallup, all the way back in Season 7.

“How’s the league been treatin’ you?” Gallup asks her.

“It’s alright.” Silvaire shrugs. “I used to watch a lot of blaseball. Never expected to play it. The Crabs all seem pretty nice, but I’m just gettin’ to know them.”

Out of the corner of her eye Gallup spies Maggie raising an eyebrow at her. She pretends not to see it. 

“That’s good,” Gallup says. “I had no idea ‘bout blaseball until that portal opened. At least you had some background knowledge.”

There’s a hint of bitterness to her voice that she notices and tries to hide. But Silvaire just nods. She says, “Yeah. It takes a lot of getting used to.” 

Gallup takes another sip of her drink. She doesn’t want to end up complaining about her situation to some player who’s still adjusting to the league herself. So she forces a smile. “I really like your jacket, by the way.”

“Thank you! It was a gift from my grandpa.” As she looks closer, Gallup can see a twinkling silver chain looped through the eye sockets of a bird skull that rests on Silvaire’s sternum. But it’s not so macabre when she meets Silvaire’s eyes and that smile is still there. She can’t stop noticing things about her - the way her dark hair curls around the nape of her neck, the sheen of her horns under the dim light, the crab engraved on her belt buckle. 

“If you don’t mind me askin’, where’d you get your hat?” Silvaire asks. “I’d like to find some that I don’t have to cut the holes in myself.”

Gallup takes it off, holds it out to Silvaire so she can examine it. “This one in particular was made by some friends of mine. I don’t think their company um, exists anymore. But there’s some good online vendors I’ve bought my new hats from.”

Silvaire gently turns the hat over in her hands. She asks, “May I try it on?”

Her request sends a bolt through Gallup’s chest. Silvaire quickly adds, “It’s okay if you’d rather me not.”

“No, it’s okay! I mean, yes. It’s okay. Yes, you can try it on.”

Silvaire takes off her own hat, sets it down on the bar, and carefully puts Gallup’s on. Her horns are bent in the middle at nearly right angles, so she has to do some maneuvering to get it on her head. But it suits her. 

“How do I look?” she asks.

As a Spite Demon, Gallup’s skin is already red, but she can feel it turning redder. Her hair glows faintly, and a few sparks shoot out from the bottom. Maggie throws her a warning look. She clears her throat. “Uh, it suits you.”

“Thank you! I might have to get one for myself, then.” Silvaire hands the hat back to Gallup and pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Can you text me some recommendations?” 

Gallup takes the phone, her hand brushing Silvaire’s, puts in her phone number and hands it back.

“Thanks. See if you get this,” Silvaire says, and Gallup’s phone vibrates and she takes it out to see Silvaire’s text:

🥩🤠🦀

Gallup grins. “Got it.”

She has a feeling she’ll be looking at that text many times over. 

As it is, Gallup ends up staying much longer at the Laughing Goat than she had intended. Over a few more rounds of drinks, she and Silvaire trade cowboy stories, Gallup laments not being able to wear cowboy boots due to her hooves, and Silvaire talks about her grandpa. Finally, when Gallup is thinking she’d better go now or she’ll pass out during practice later, Silvaire slides Maggie a tip and hops down from her chair.

“Well, Gallup, I’ve had such a wonderful time, but I better get back to the hotel. We leave in a few hours.”

Gallup follows her to the entrance. “You gonna get enough sleep?”

Silvaire shrugs. “I’ll be fine. Honest, I’d intended to leave earlier, but every moment was worth it.” She holds the door open for Gallup and they step through into the night. The street’s still deserted, and Gallup can make out the shadow of her motorcycle further down the alley and a near-empty parking lot with just a few vehicles and a solitary bike. 

On the sidewalk, Silvaire turns to Gallup. “I’ll see you around,” she says, and her hand comes to rest on Gallup’s arm for just a moment. 

“Yeah. I’ll…text you about the hats,” Gallup says, and as Silvaire removes her hand, she can still feel the phantom pressure there, tingling like she’s lain on it for too long. 

Silvaire’s eyes glint under the streetlight. “That’d be great. Well, my horse is over that way, so. Good night, Gallup.”

“Good night, Silvaire,” Gallup says, and as she slings a leg over her motorcycle and watches Silvaire go, a thought prickles the back of her mind. _I don’t think I see a horse over there?_

* * *

Gallup ends up texting Silvaire about the hats, and more. Silvaire sends Gallup a celebratory selfie with the team in the background when the Crabs beat the Spies 9-2, and another one when they return to Houston and win once more. Gallup replies with a blurry shot of Conner and August playfully bickering over the best way to grill a post-practice steak.

That means the Crabs are in the championships, and have a shot at ascension. Gallup suppresses this thought, even though she knows it’s likely. The Crabs have been dominant over the Shoe Thieves, and only need one more victory to sweep them and win the series. 

But the Thieves manage to tie it up, 2-2, and the suspense is so high that the Steaks decide to have a watch party in the clubhouse. The final game’s on the big television, there’s lots of snacks, and all the sofas and armchairs are occupied. Gallup’s on the couch in front of the screen between Ronan and August, taking handfuls of popcorn from the big bowl on the coffee table. The teams haven’t entered the dugout yet, and so Gallup takes out her phone to text Silvaire.

_Good luck!_

Gallup sees the little bubble that means Silvaire’s typing, but Ronan snatches the phone away before she can see her response.

“What’s this? Silvaire? Silvaire whomst?”

“Ronan!” Gallup says, feeling her face immediately flush. “It’s just Silvaire Roadhouse from the Crabs.”

“Silvaire Roadhouse from the Crabs,” August says, leaning over with a grin. 

“Well - we met a few days ago, and she wanted tips on where to find cowboy hats,” Gallup protests.

“Uh huh. This isn’t a hat.” Ronan brandishes Silvaire’s selfie. 

“She’s wearing a hat!”

“A blaseball cap, yeah. And she’s blowing a kiss at you-”

“Ronan!” Gallup grabs the phone back, just in time to see Silvaire reply. 

_Thanks!_ 🤠💖

“Cute,” August says. 

“Sillll-vaaaaire from the Craaaaaabs,” Ronan singsongs. 

Silvaire shows up on screen just moments later, stretching in the dugout. She’s talking animatedly with one of her teammates and Gallup leans forward to see if she can make out what she’s saying. But August passes around the basket of homemade cheese curds she’s brought and when Gallup looks up again, the game has started. 

With the Crabs’ lead of four to one, it looks certain that they’ll ascend. So when Stu Trololol hits a three-run home run in the bottom of the ninth inning to shame the Crabs, the Steaks are so engrossed in chatting and eating snacks that it’s a full minute until Conner says, “Wait. What?”

Gallup whirls around to face the television just as the game ends and an inky darkness spreads over the sky. The Crabs - Gallup can’t make out Silvaire amidst the chaos - retreat back into the stands. Their fight is over, but the Thieves don’t get even a moment of celebration as the Shelled One descends, wreathed in crimson light and speaking in a booming voice audible even over the television. The commentators are speechless.

The outcome is inevitable, but there’s a palpable tension in the room - especially among August and Conner - when Jessica Telephone hits the final homer to defeat the Thieves. The mood is ruined, so everyone quietly cleans up and leaves. 

* * *

Later on, Gallup wishes she’d stayed longer. Maybe talked to August a bit more. Because on the next practice, election day, August goes up in flames, and Gallup sees it happen. She can sympathize with her replacement, a very confused food truck owner who apparently knew August and has no clue about blaseball at all. But Gallup would give them up ten times over to get August back. Then she feels bad for thinking that.

One more person on her already small list of friends gone, and Gallup is even more lonely. The rush of practice, games, and travel keeps her occupied during the day. But she can’t help but feel that it’s all for nothing. In practice, she’s never able to hit the ball as far or run as fast as she wants, and she will never be able to. As a demon bound by an ILB contract, she will never improve no matter how much she plays.

So she goes through the motions and every night she stares up at the ceiling wishing for a good dream, one about her life before blaseball, the wide open range, relishing the spark of fear in an evildoer’s eyes as they realize the Terror of the Mild West is upon them. But more often than not she has nightmares - flames dancing everywhere she looks and that horrible memory repeating over and over, a portal opening in front of her; the sickening pull, like someone was reaching straight into her body, of being yanked from her home and hurled into an unfamiliar time. 

Who, then, could blame her for spending entirely too much time checking the Baltimore Crabs’ season schedule, looking every day to see who they’re playing and where? Gallup gets her opportunity on day 40. August has returned by then through some kind of loophole, but as a forest sprite whose time is beholden to entities outside of blaseball. Gallup is elated to see her friend return, but she has duties to fulfill now.

Gallup checks the schedule and discovers that the Crabs have returned to Houston to play the Spies. After she loses her own game, against the Pies, she takes a deep breath and picks up her phone. Puts it down. Steels herself, picks it up again, and texts Silvaire.

_Saw you’re close by. Wanna get a bite somewhere?_

She expects to wait in agony for hours, but Silvaire replies within minutes. 

_Sounds great. Meet you at Chlili’s?_

This time, they meet halfway between Houston and Dallas. Gallup parks her motorcycle in the lot and heads inside, hooves clicking on the wooden floor, to reserve a booth. Silvaire arrives minutes later, sliding into the seat across from her. She’s wearing a new hat from the vendor Gallup recommended, brown as freshly-turned dirt, and the dark circles under her eyes are a little more pronounced than last time. But she still smiles when she sees Gallup, and it gives Gallup a funny feeling in her stomach.

“How’re you doing?” Silvaire says, propping her elbows on the menu and leaning forward. “I heard about your player, Mina. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Gallup is surprised that Silvaire would’ve known. “She’s okay. She found a way to come back, but it sure was a shock.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“How ‘bout you? The, uh, Steaks, were watchin’ that final game last season.”

Silvaire purses her lips and looks down at the table, and for a second Gallup’s afraid she’s said something wrong. But she just shakes her head and says, “Ya know, it was sure disappointin’ at first. But I don’t think I really want to ascend. I’ve got a lot of stuff here that I...don’t really want to leave behind.”

An image flashes through Gallup’s mind of the porcelain mask lying in the bottom of the locked trunk in her room. Just before she can respond, a waiter comes over to take their order. She’d been so busy talking with Silvaire she hadn’t considered what to get. Though she doesn’t actually require food to sustain herself, she wouldn’t mind a little something. 

“You wanna share an appetizer?” Silvaire says, poring over the menu.

“Sounds good to me.”

They end up ordering a plate of nachos with extra jalapeños. It’s been a while since Gallup’s eaten food, instead of just sustaining off of despair and misery. Lately, though, she’s been the biggest source of misery she knows, and she can’t feed off of that. But she enjoys the nachos, smothered in pickled jalapeño and melted cheese that reminds her of August’s famed cheese curds. 

“How was the ride over?” Silvaire asks. 

“It was good. Didn’t take too long, and the sunset was pretty to watch.”

“That sounds nice. I just took a horse over, and it was real quick too.”

“A horse, huh?” Gallup smiles. “I miss riding horses. Back in the day, I had Kapnos. We were great partners.”

“Kapnos! What a great name.”

“Yeah. Those were the good ol’ days.” Gallup considers whether to say more. Silvaire looks interested, so she carries on. “I was part of the Grimsley Gallows gang. We served justice to those who had evaded it. I...I’m a Spite Demon. I fed off of their misery.”

She doesn’t know what to expect from Silvaire’s reaction, but she just nods. “So that’s your main form of...sustenance?”

“Um, yeah.”

“How ‘bout those nachos?” Her smile is playful.

“I don’t technically need to eat them, but they just taste good, I guess.” 

“Understandable.” Silvaire points to her own horns. “Well, you’ve shared about yourself, so as for me, I’m part Minotaur, on my mom’s side. Got the horns, and I like to think I have some sort of bond with the cattle.”

“Nice,” Gallup says. “Just out of curiosity, you ever find it hard to sleep on them? The horns, I mean.”

“Oh, gosh, all the time! If we’re staying in a hotel and the pillow’s too soft I can never get to sleep. Do you have any tips?”

“Sometimes I sleep in a chair,” Gallup says. “Makes my back hurt like hell, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Hey, I’ll have to try that sometime.” 

The two of them split the bill and just as they’re ready to go, a ruckus erupts from the front of the restaurant. Gallup can’t make out what everyone’s saying, but she does hear, “What is that?!” and “How did THAT get here?”

“Everyone stay calm, I’ll shoo it away!” A Chlili’s employee parts the crowd, holding a large push broom. 

Upon further approach, Gallup sees a crowd of people clustered around the window, staring at something in the parking lot. Next to Gallup’s motorcycle is a long shape, low to the ground, with a pointed head and long tail. Her breath catches as she realizes what it is. 

“Hey!” Silvaire comes rushing up to the window. “That’s my horse!”

The employee turns to her. “Your _horse?_ ”

“Yeah, I rode it here.” Silvaire’s tone is indignant. “I promise you, I’ll be on my way in just a moment.”

“You... _rode_ that here?” The employee’s voice approaches a squeak.

“Yes. Good day.” Silvaire pushes past the agog crowd and Gallup follows her out the door. She can see the alligator clearer from here, sitting docilely next to her motorcycle and tethered to one of the posts that hold up the awning over the entrance.

Gallup delicately poses the question, “So. That’s your horse and you rode it here?”

“I don’t know why they made it such a big deal, it’s just a horse. People have seen horses before!” Voice growing a little more agitated, Silvaire turns to Gallup. But she stops when she sees the bewildered expression on her face and curses under her breath. “Wait. What do _you_ think it is?”

“Um, to me, it looks like an alligator. A big one too.” 

“Ah.” Silvaire deflates. “Guess it happened again.” 

Gallup waits quietly, not wanting to say anything wrong. Silvaire quickly adds, “I guess I should tell you. I’m horseblind. It’s a family curse. Every time I find a horse, it’s not really a horse. Or so people tell me.”

“I see.” Gallup looks down at the alligator. “You rode all the way here from Houston on that?”

“I did think it felt a bit short, for a horse.” Silvaire shrugs. “But it should be fine for the way back. I had fun tonight, Gallup.”

Gallup’s mouth goes dry. “Um, yeah. Let me know, anytime you want to hang out. I’m free anytime. When I’m not playing blaseball, that is.”

“Me too! I’ll text you.” Silvaire reaches out and touches Gallup’s arm for a second, then lets go. “Um, sorry about the alligator thing.”

“It’s alright. See you later, Silvaire.”

“Bye, Gallup! Good luck against the Pies tomorrow.” 

Gallup watches astride her motorcycle as Silvaire untethers the alligator and maneuvers it out of the parking lot at a speed that seems faster than an alligator should be able to run. But she doesn’t know enough about alligators to know for sure.

* * *

The Steaks once again don’t make it to the playoffs. But Ronan Jaylee throws a shutout against the Breath Mints on Day 99, which is still cause for celebration. Gallup gets some partying in, August Sky eats an ump’s flame, Conner hits a bunch of dingers, and just like that, their season is over.

Gallup’s heading out to the cookout, joking around with Ronan and flush with some kind of post-season elation, when her phone buzzes. It’s a text from Silvaire. 

_‘Grats on the season. We should get together before the playoffs. Maybe during the Wild Card round?_

“Ooh! Is that _Silllllvaire_ from the _Craaaaaabs_?” Ronan grabs Gallup’s forearm to keep it still and leans over to see her phone. 

“Yes, Ronan,” Gallup sighs. 

“Cute.” She releases her grip on Gallup’s arm. “Well, are you gonna go see her?”

“Probably,” Gallup mumbles. 

“You should!” As they arrive to the cookout, Ronan snatches two plates from the buffet and hands one to Gallup. “Maybe if we had more seafood at these things the Crabs might come play us.”

Gallup considers Ronan on the pitcher’s mound, facing down Silvaire. This prospect makes her feel a little uneasy, though she doesn’t know why. “Hmm. Maybe.”

They peruse the buffet line, and just as they sit down with their food, Conner swings by with a package in his hand. 

“Hey, Gallup, this arrived at the clubhouse during the game.” 

“Thanks, Conner.” Gallup takes it and stows it next to her on the picnic bench. 

Ronan tilts her head at it. “Gonna open that?”

“I’ll open it later,” Gallup says. “Don’t wanna get barbecue sauce on it.”

“What _is_ it?”

Gallup sighs. She might as well tell Ronan, even though she’ll probably get made fun of. She lowers her voice. “It’s a Crabs jersey. I wanted to go and watch them in the playoffs.”

“ _Them?_ You mean _Sillllvaaaa-”_

“Yes, Ronan,” Gallup cuts her off. “I just...I don’t know. They have a real big chance of ascendin’, and I just thought…”

“Mhm.” Ronan raises an eyebrow and delicately wipes some grease off her fingers. “You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

The day after the cookout, Gallup takes a trip up to Oklahoma on her motorcycle. The city fades away, soon replaced by the open road and miles upon miles of rolling plains. She goes roaring down the road at full speed, imagining she’s back cantering along with the Grimsley Gallows gang, the dust from the road swirling up and billowing in the air as they chase down their target, feeling their mounting fear and misery like a magnet drawing them closer. Gallup’s hands tighten around the handlebars until the blood drains from them. Faster and faster, until the speed leaves her breathless and her hat would have flown off if not for her horns anchoring it in place. _Suppose there are some upsides to being a demon,_ she tells herself.

As the sun’s just about to slip beneath the horizon she pulls into the driveway of a little ranch, the only structure for miles around. The lights inside the house radiate a warm orange glow. She parks her motorcycle near the garage and just as she gets off, the front door swings open and Silvaire comes out.

“Hey there!” She sweeps Gallup into an unexpected yet not unwelcome hug. Gallup moves her head so their horns don’t hit each other. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Gallup says as they separate.

“Darlin’! That’s new.”

“Oh, um...should I not?” 

“No! No, I mean, it’s fine. More than fine!” 

“‘Right, then.” 

Gallup follows Silvaire up the porch steps and through the doorway into a small kitchen. A man is sitting at the table, which is laden with what looks to be a hearty meal. He’s wearing clothes similar to Silvaire’s - trousers, flannel shirt, and vest - and a cowboy hat, though his doesn’t have holes for horns. Something about him - his posture, maybe, or his intense eyes, or his grip when he stands and shakes Gallup’s hand - conveys an aura of quiet power. 

“Nice t’meetcha, Gallup,” he says. “I’m Silvaire’s grandpa. But you can call me Silvaire or Silvaire Sr.”

“Um, nice to meet you too.” 

They all sit down and eat. It’s comforting, sitting in the warm kitchen with a fire crackling in the potbelly stove in the corner and the wind whistling outside. And the food is tasty too. 

“I grew up in Baltimore,” Silvaire explains. “But I would always come and visit Grandpa here ever so often. So this - this place is like home to me.”

Something in her eyes turns sad, and she exchanges a look with her grandpa. She chokes out, “I’m really gonna miss it - if, um, we go Up.” 

He puts a hand on her shoulder and she gradually composes herself. She shakes her head. “Sorry, Gallup.”

“It’s alright,” Gallup says. “I can understand, um...leaving a place with little warning.”

Silvaire Sr. turns to her. “That reminds me. Silvaire was telling me about you and your name rang a bell. You were a member of the Grimsley Gallows gang, yes?”

Gallup’s mouth goes dry. She nods her head. 

“Ah.” His eyes flicker from Gallup to Silvaire and back. “Well. Heard things about them. Not all good. Seems you’ve changed since then.”

“I…” Gallup starts.

A memory surfaces in her mind, different from the wild rides that she remembers most fondly. A moonless night, a rush of adrenaline, stalking down a dark alleyway, a surprised grunt truncated by the sound of metal meeting flesh. The crash of breaking wood and a wicked laugh. Blood splattered across the dirt. 

Gallup’s hair sparks and begins to burn, unconsciously, and the wooden chair she’s sitting on catches on fire. Silvaire Jr.’s the first to notice. “Grandpa!” she says, scoldingly, and Gallup leaps up from the chair, dazed. 

“I’m sorry!” she stammers, but Silvaire Sr., is quicker. He springs up and grabs a fire extinguisher that’s mounted on the kitchen wall. Pulls the pin and sprays a mess of foam all over the burning chair. The room goes silent once the danger is past, all three of them staring at the now-charred chair.

“I’m so sorry,” Gallup repeats. Tears sting in her eyes. She imagines the imminent cold and lonely drive back to Dallas.

“Aw, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Silvaire Sr. says. “Was an old thing anyway. Sorry for bringin’ up your past. I can see you’re not the same person you were back then.”

“I’m...not?” 

“That’s news to you, I s’pose.” He gives her a curious look. “I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

“Grandpa!” Silvaire says again. 

“Okay, okay.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “We’ll get you a new chair, Gallup. D’you want some dessert, too?”

That night, as she sleeps on the living room couch, Gallup dreams about her life before blaseball. Racing across the plain, whooping loudly into the boundless sky. Shrouds and Sunday not too far behind, Grimsley by her side, cloak billowing in the wind. Their face is masked as usual - speculation as to what lies beneath is a common conversation topic across the Mild West - but with white-gloved hand, they turn to her and remove it. And then Silvaire’s there, sitting resplendent upon an alligator that’s keeping pace with Kapnos, and she says, “Somethin’ the matter, Gallup?”

When she wakes up, there’s breakfast ready on the table, filling the room with the scents of strong coffee and sizzling bacon. After the three of them eat together (leaving all of the chairs intact, much to Gallup’s relief), Silvaire and Gallup head out to take a walk.

The sky is blue and bright and cloudless, and there’s no traffic along the dirt road they walk past the property and into the desert. There’s no trees, just scrubland and a series of rolling hills that recede into the horizon.

“Was thinkin’ we could go for a short hike,” Silvaire says. “There’s one trail that will get us up to a real nice view.”

“Sounds good,” Gallup says. “Lead the way.”

Gallup’s hooves make it easy for her to scale the path up. She and Silvaire follow the winding trail up to the summit of a hill, from which they can see the entire landscape and where it meets the sky, miles and miles away. 

“Thanks for comin’ up here with me,” Silvaire says, sitting down on a flat rock and motioning for Gallup to join her. “Wanted to see this view one last time ‘fore the playoffs.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Gallup says. “Reminds me of…” She trails off. Silvaire’s expression is eerily similar to that of her dream. 

“Before?” Silvaire prompts. Gallup nods.

“I guess I should come clean about that. What your grandpa said kinda made me think. I just wanted to get back to my home time so bad, I didn’t even think about how bad the things we did were.”

A breath. Gallup feels tears sting her eyes. She blinks a few times and continues.

“Silvaire, I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. We did some real bad things. We - I - stole things, killed people, all for personal gain. If you don’t wanna see me anymore…”

To Gallup’s surprise, a wide smile spreads across Silvaire’s face. She shakes her head and takes Gallup’s hand. 

“Gallup, I trust my grandpa. He said you’ve changed, and I believe him. He’s been ‘round for a long time, y’know.”

Gallup’s too choked up to say anything, but Silvaire doesn’t seem to mind. So the two of them sit there for a few moments more, holding hands, and Gallup’s gaze drifts from the red soil below up to the sky, and wonders if she’ll lose Silvaire just as she’s gotten to know her. 

* * *

The Crabs are stronger than ever. They sweep the Sunbeams, then the Lovers. Gallup spends a few days in Dallas not doing much else than staying glued to the television. But then, as the Crabs are up 2-0 against the Shoe Thieves and have a shot at the championship, she finds herself in Baltimore, a new and unfamiliar city, and steps into the airport in a daze, an hour and a half before the game is supposed to start. 

Gallup hates flying. In her home time there was no way to get so high above the ground. The air pressure, roar of the engine, and rocking of the cabin make her a feel little disoriented and woozy. But as she waits on the curb outside for a taxi, deep breaths of the cold air make her feel a little better. When it arrives, she has to duck low so as to not hit her horns on the ceiling. The driver looks over her Crabs jersey and says, “You going to the Crabitat?”

“Yes, please.” 

They set off slowly - there’s a lot of traffic due to lots of other fans flocking to the city to watch what could be the championship game. Gallup joggles her leg up and down, but is careful to channel all her nervous energy into that one limb lest her hair ruin the upholstery. She can see the huge carapace of the Crabitat come into view, towering over the bay, and then, half an hour before the game, the taxi pulls up to the curb and Gallup pays and gets out. 

Crowds of people already clog the parking lot and the entrance to the stadium, but something about Gallup - maybe it’s the horns, or the hair, not yet ablaze but sending a heat haze into the air above it, or the piercing expression on her face - allows her to part the crowd unopposed. She enters the stadium through the Crabitat’s mandibles, checks her tickets for her seat number, looks up, and sees Silvaire standing in front of her. 

“You made it,” she says. 

“Um. Hi.” Gallup swallows hard. “Good luck today.”

“There’s no one else I would rather have watching me,” Silvaire whispers. She puts a hand on Gallup’s cheek, and her skin seems to buzz and smolder under it. The words Gallup’s tried to find this whole time burble up her throat, are seconds from passing her lips.

“Silvaire, I-”

Then there’s a gruff voice from around the corner. “Silvaire! The game’s about to start. Get in here!”

Silvaire curses. “Coming, Loser!” she yells. She turns to Gallup. “I’m so sorry. I gotta go. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“I...okay,” Gallup manages. Silvaire removes her hand, fast, like a bandage being ripped off, then turns and sprints away. She looks back once. 

The roar of the crowd makes Gallup’s head spin. Sitting in the front row facing the pitch, she waves off several roaming concessions vendors. She’s facing the visitor dugout, so she sees the Shoe Thieves emerge, wearing their blue pinstriped away jerseys. She can’t see the home dugout, but she imagines Silvaire down there, stretching and warming up, adjusting her cap so it fits snugly on her horns. 

The game starts, and Gallup has to take deep breaths to calm her racing heart, brace her hands on the railing in front of her. The entire row of seating is full but she doesn’t care, barely even notices the people sitting on either side. Crows swarm the stadium, some perching up along the edge of the carapace walls, some circling high above, wings spread wide against the gray sky.

At the bottom of the second inning, the score’s still 0-0 when Silvaire strides up to home plate. She nods at her teammate at first base. Winds up, brow furrowed in concentration, and makes contact with a resounding _CRACK._ The ball flies far, making a beautiful arc straight into the stands, where screaming fans vie to catch it. A two-run home run. She jogs the bases leisurely, and when her foot touches home plate again, that ecstatic smile spreads across her face, and she raises her arms in triumph. 

Gallup jumps to her hooves, screaming along with the crowd. She claps until her hands hurt. She can’t tell, and no one around is going to tell her, but her hair is growing hot enough to soften the back of her plastic chair. She sits back down, on the edge of her seat, as it begins to crumple.

The Crabs are on top of their game. Their 2-0 lead grows to 5-0, then, on a three-run home run by Pedro Davids that sends both Sutton Dreamy and Silvaire home, 8-0. 

With the Crabs’ sizeable lead, Gallup dares to hope that nothing could possibly go wrong at this stage. But something tells her to wait. So when Silvaire’s up to bat again, Gallup watches, her heart in her throat, as she stands on home plate. Makes it to first base as her teammate is tagged out at second.

Tot Fox comes up to bat, holding it in his mouth, and Silvaire waits on first, poised like a coiled spring. When he smacks the ball she explodes off the base, sprints past second and third. The crowd’s cheers crescendo.

When her foot hits home plate a lot of things happen at once. 

The 9 on the scoreboard flickers to a 10 and glitches, random patterns of light flashing for a few tense seconds, before turning to zero. The sky, formerly overcast, is suddenly plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the harsh spotlights above the field. The crowd’s cheers turn to screams.

Gallup’s hair sparks. Below, under the lights, she sees Silvaire skid to a stop, then look up, agape, at the chaos. Two entities rise in the dark sky. A black hole, swirling rapidly, and a second sun, its light paler than the first. There’s bewildered chatter in the stands, but the game must continue, even without knowing their function. 

_Silvaire’s fine,_ Gallup reminds herself, to calm her racing heart. _She’s okay._

Tied at 0-0, it takes a few extra innings for someone to score. But the Crabs pull it out eventually, shaming the Shoe Thieves in the bottom of the eleventh inning. The game’s over, but Gallup can’t properly celebrate the victory. She claps along with the Crabs fans, but a cold dread coalesces in the pit of her stomach. Something bad’s about to happen. Ascension, or something worse?

Something worse. 

The Shelled One is even more terrible in person. It appears high in the sky, between the black hole and sun, and then slowly descends, tinting the entire stadium red in its glow. Several players materialize on the field, their hair an eerie white under their caps, sporting red uniforms with a peanut emblazoned on them. 

Gallup desperately scans the field for Silvaire. She gets a glimpse of her in the outfield, a steely glare on her face. She’s clenching her glove tight in her hand, her eyes fixed on home plate. 

When the Shelled One says **_MY PODS,_ **the echo reverberates across the stadium, so loud and so powerful it makes the stands tremble. A mass of dense red clouds drift over the sky, and the scent of iron fills the air. Gallup recognizes Jessica Telephone, smiling smugly by the visitor dugout and cheering on Wyatt Quitter as they step up to bat. 

Quitter hits a single. Just a single. But as their foot hits the base, all the Crabs - Silvaire among them - crumple to the ground, and the guest score on the scoreboard goes up rapidly, every number flickering higher and higher until something inside it pops and the whole thing goes out. Gallup sees it happen almost in slow motion. Silvaire’s knees buckle, and she topples forward, and before she can comprehend exactly what she’s doing, Gallup’s on her feet and her hair is ablaze, one great flame that would have destroyed the entire row of chairs had she not surged forward and attempted to climb over the railing to the pitch below. 

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” someone yells from behind Gallup. She feels people grab her and try to pull her back. 

“Let me go!” Gallup screeches. She jerks her arms free. From her hands, two sets of magical claws burst to life - long talons covered with crackling flame, menacing sharp weapons that make the people around her gasp and back away. 

Alerted by the ruckus from the stands, Silvaire staggers to her feet as her teammates likewise recover. The game’s over, so she’s free to walk, then sprint, towards the railing over which Gallup is leaning, waving her hands frantically to get her to stop. 

“Gallup! It’s okay! I’m fine!”

Behind her, a few umpires converge. There’s no emotion behind their masks, but they tilt their heads up at Gallup, and she can feel the implicit warning. 

“Silvaire!” Gallup screams. 

“I’ll see you soon!” Silvaire calls. She blows a kiss to Gallup. And then, with no fanfare or noise or visual effect, she, along with the rest of her teammates, vanishes from the field. Almost as if she was never there at all. Gallup’s fire goes out, all at once, and she’s blown backwards into her seat.

The crowd starts screaming again, but it takes Gallup a moment to recover, feeling her hair cool down and her hands stop tingling. The exhaustion slams her all at once, and she slumps further down in her chair, breathing hard. Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. 

When the Shelled One screams **_WHAT_ **, she looks up, just in time to see her predecessor, Sebastian Telephone, rise in a column of blue light. 

She’d never seen him in person, but she would recognize him anywhere from the pictures around the clubhouse and the giant banner that hangs in the George Foreman stadium. His hands tremble as he holds his flip phone bat, and he scans the field as his teammates rise around him. 

The constant grating feedback in the air causes a throbbing pain in Gallup’s head. She watches in a stupor as the two pitchers constantly switch places in flashes of pink light and the Shelled One bellows in disbelief. 

But her full attention is on the field at the bottom of the third inning, when one of the umpires’ masks begins to glow red. An electronic sound grows louder, a bolt of fire ready to discharge. Sebastian tears away from his teammates - dashes at it, reaches the umpire right as it goes off - and a gout of fire gushes up in a pillar several feet tall, lighting up the pitch-black sky, swallowing both him and the umpire in its wake. 

Gallup joins the crowd in chanting his name, shouting until her voice turns hoarse.

* * *

The Discipline Era is over, and Gallup commemorates this by aimlessly wandering around the Crabitat, going in the opposite direction of the crowds pushing towards the exit. 

She doesn’t want to call a taxi back to the airport because that would mean she’s giving up, Silvaire’s gone, and she just can’t leave with this gaping hole in her chest. 

The tunnels get emptier and emptier the further she goes. She’s completely lost and all she can hear is the echo of her hooves on the concrete. But as she turns a corner, she’s suddenly aware of a scuttling noise along the ground, and comes face-to-face with an elderly man who has an extremely large beard, a broom in one hand and an envelope in the other, and just about an army of crabs flanking him. 

Gallup jumps, barely muffling a shriek. “Sorry,” she says in her next breath. “I, uh...wasn’t expectin’ anyone to be here.”

The man holds out the envelope. “Are you Gallup?” 

Gallup takes it and turns it over. Sure enough, her name is scrawled on the back. 

“Found it in the locker room I was cleaning,” the man says. “Taped on the front of Ms. Roadhouse’s locker, with explicit instructions to give it to you if she couldn’t herself.”

“Thank you,” Gallup says, fumbling to open the envelope. 

“Welcome.” The man recedes down the hall, his crab posse scuttling after him. Gallup pulls out the letter, blinking hard. [ As she reads the first line, her legs give out, and she slides down to the ground, tears running down her face. ](https://twitter.com/GallupCrueller/status/1317999225695883264?s=20)

In short, the letter is a confession of Silvaire’s feelings for Gallup, and a promise to act upon them when she returns. _I’ll see ya again someday,_ it ends, and Gallup hopes beyond hope that Silvaire is right.

Season 11 is a blur. The Crabs are replaced by the Lift and Gallup does a double take every time she sees their bright pink in place of the Crabs’ familiar red. She sends texts to Silvaire every day, but they’re invariably met with a “not delivered” message in return. 

She finds the new weather tedious, how a large lead can so easily become a loss. When up to bat, she swings her bat with abandon, trying to hit the ball so hard it’ll soar up and up and disappear to wherever the Crabs are now. 

Silvaire’s letter finds its home under her pillow, but Gallup doesn’t use her bed most nights anymore, because the slightest hint of discomfort from her horns renders her unable to sleep. She steals a well-padded desk chair from one of the clubhouse’s conference rooms and uses that instead. Every morning when she wakes up, she rereads Silvaire’s letter, until she has it memorized. And every evening, before she goes to bed, she checks the Telescope for the results of the Crabs’ game that day. Wishes she could watch, even if they won’t win a single one. 

The Steaks finally make it to the playoffs, only to lose (once again) in the first round. Their final game of the season is a home game, perfect for the last pre-siesta cookout. They lose narrowly to the Magic, 6-7, and trudge to the showers, after which Gallup checks the Telescope again. 1 to 98. At least they got one win. She hopes that relegation is a thing up there, so that the Crabs might come back down. 

The cookout’s a strangely somber affair, in that all of the Steaks won’t see each other, let alone another team, as often as they have been. No one knows how long the Grand Siesta is going to last, so the cookout goes even longer than usual. Gallup reminisces that just a few seasons ago, she would’ve loved nothing more than to skip a cookout and go brood in the clubhouse. But this time she sits at a big table with both her teammates and Magic players, listening to Eizabeth Elliot talk about the bacteria she’s studying for her PhD thesis. The food’s delicious as always, even though Gallup has to endure the Grill Master’s horrible puns every time she passes by.

It would be almost perfect, if only she could know where Silvaire was and if she was safe - even better, to have her sitting close by, sharing this moment with her. But she settles for what she has right now, settles for Silvaire’s promise.

The Grand Siesta is both a relief and extremely boring. Relief; from any more catastrophes or lost teammates, but blaseball takes up so much commitment and effort it inevitably leaves a void when it’s gone. There’s no mandatory practice, and the team scatters to do whatever they please. Some, like Kit and Dickerson, have careers outside of blaseball; some, like Conner and Rai, spend their free time on hobbies. 

Gallup, instead, gets up to no good. A carefully executed plan involving some teammates (and a non-teammate) results in her obtaining a not-insignificant sum of money, some of which she uses to buy a fancy new motorcycle. She decides to take a road trip to break in her new ride, heading first to the Hellmouth to register for an arcane evaluation. The centuries have taken a toll on her memory, and she figures it’d be nice to have some indication of her ancestry.

She returns from her road trip without the evaluation (4-6 weeks, it’s supposed to take, and took a lot of pointless scavenger hunts to obtain), but with a two-headed Doberman puppy instead. She names the puppy Masala, and discovers after a particularly surprising incident that she can breathe fire. The clubhouse gets a few new scorch marks on the walls, but after a few weeks, Masala can do it on command. Gallup busies herself with catching up on the pop culture she missed during the centuries she skipped over, which ends up in weekly Steaks movie nights, during which a bunch of her teammates congregate in the clubhouse to debate over what to watch while ingesting copious amounts of snacks. 

After a few weeks of bombarding the Hellmouth Bureau of Arcane Evaluation with letters asking for her report, it finally pays off. Gallup receives it in the mail one afternoon, and she sits down in the clubhouse dining room with a cup of coffee to pore over it. It turns out she’s not all Spite Demon, but part succubus as well. She sits stunned for a few minutes, realizing the implications. Not only can she feed on misery, then, but also joy and pleasure. 

She’s still sitting there when the doorbell rings. Masala immediately starts barking at it. Putting the letter carefully back in the envelope and setting it aside, Gallup jumps up. “Shhh, Masala, it’s okay,” she says. Movie night isn’t for a few more hours, but it’s not unlike her teammates to come and hang out, watch something on the big screen in the rec room or try their hand at table tennis.

“Coming!” Gallup calls as she hurries to the door, Masala running along in her wake. She pulls open the door and her brain short circuits. 

Against all logic, Silvaire is standing there on the doorstep. Gallup lets her eyes close, and when she opens them, she’s still there. Just as Gallup remembers, in her brown fringed leather jacket and custom-made hat. She’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and already, her eyes are a little misty. 

There’s a protracted silence, then Gallup chokes, “Silvaire?”

A wide smile breaks across Silvaire’s face. She starts to say, “Hey, Gallup-” but Gallup throws herself forward and sweeps her into a hug. 

“I didn’t know if you’d ever come back!” Gallup sobs. 

“I missed you so much,” Silvaire says as they pull apart. “I couldn’t bear the thought of never seein’ you again.” She takes Gallup’s hands in hers. 

“How - how did you get here?”

Silvaire’s smile turns sly. “I was s’posed to move into my Crabs LLC office today. Took a little detour instead. How’ve you been, Gallup?” 

“I’ve been fine,” Gallup says. “I got your letter. I read it so many times.”

Silvaire’s cheeks flush red. “What did ya think?”

“It gave me so much hope. Thought I’d missed my chance to tell you how I felt about you.”

“And that is…” 

“Think we’re on the same page, darlin’.” 

When they both lean in, their horns meet first, instead of their lips. Gallup’s eyes close, but they fly open when she realizes her horns are hooked around Silvaire’s. The two of them look at each other, then bust out laughing. A bit of careful maneuvering sets them free.

“Why don’t we try that again?” Silvaire suggests.

Gallup’s still half-chuckling when their lips meet. She feels like she’s floating a foot off the ground. 

They pull apart eventually and she says, “Why don’t you come in for a spell?”

“I’d stay forever if I could.” Silvaire slides an arm around Gallup’s waist.

Gallup leads her into the kitchen, which is suffused with golden afternoon light and the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee. For the first time in a long while, she can’t think of a place she’d rather be.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! A huge thanks to both @RoadhouseBlase and @GallupCrueller on Twitter for being a major inspiration for this, and the mod of @GallupCrueller for answering all my Gallup lore questions and helping me write this fic!
> 
> Title is from “Volta” by The Crane Wives.


End file.
